The Beginning
by dksbear
Summary: Post-Death Cure: Thomas and the remaining immunes are enjoying the new found luxuries of what they can now call home. However, there is more than the eye can see. With everything on Thomas's mind and the chaos of the island, it's just like what was left.
1. Chapter One

It took a while, but finally, the now safe hero was intensley thinking. Again. Thomas paced up and down the petite hallway, instinctly rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans. Possibilities and sweet memories raced through his mind, and much like a bride on her wedding day, he felt like fainting. _Calm yourself, Thomas,_ he repetively cooed to himself, but his attempt to calm his nerves strengthened them. After all the trials, pains, and unbearable stress he had been through, it was unbelievable to think he couldn't sustain enough bravery to... to- Knees buckled at the thought and he doubled over, awkwardly doing a single roll down the hallway. Shaking his head, he didn't bother to return to his weakened feet. So, he sat there, facing the horrible truth that his strength gave in. Finally, as he foresaw, the cool sweat dripped down his forehead and swirved it's way into his eyes. The coolness surprisingly refreshed him and he breathed in slowly, more and more, and exhaled. The essence oddly reminded him of being a Runner; the chilled sweat and putting all energy towards the goal. Standing up, at this rate. For a few minutes, Thomas remained on the ground, pleased with where he was, but still waiting for that adrenaline moment he always got in battle. Pressing down on the carpeted floors, he gradually raised his body to normal posture and continued down the hallway, using the little energy he still had to look decent. It was no adrenaline, but at least now he could walk.

It had still been early when Thomas couldn't return to sleep. A mixture of collided dreams troubled his thoughts and he ended up focusing on one. However, this one was real, a realisitc thought. Not a thought, actually, a plan. And frankly, this plan required a lot of bravery- which Thomas frowned upon not being able to gather. Like a waterfall, the whole idea trotted back to him, flooding his brain and there he was, drowning in emotions. One drop, two drop. Beads of sweat gathered back together, as if planning their route through his face, yet again. Slowly, the disappointed Thomas followed the corridor path back to his bedroom. Clumsily, he plopped himself on his bed as a heap, moving around until he felt just right. Thomas was grateful when he relaxed and the stressful emotions left him. But as always, the single most important one remained. The brave, fearless, nearly worshipped boy felt _emptiness. _And there, right there, laying upon his casual-nothing-special bed, Thomas realized no matter what, he had to follow this plan. To hell with the outcome, a man knows when he has a task to complete, and, definitely, this was a task worth completing. Closing his eyes in sudden pleasure, knowing that soon his specially planned day would come, the hopeful boy joined the world of sleep. He was wishing in a whisper, to whatever God rest above, whatever shooting star would pass, whatever; that he would win this battle.

Thomas was wishing ever so passionately, that Brenda would marry him.

It had only seemed like a quick few minutes that he got to rest his finally calm mind. But, nonetheless, someone was outside his room, giving two tiny knocks. For a breif moment, he hestitated, contemplating his choices: presume to the morning, or sleep. Slumberland lost the argument, and he rolled to his side to ever-so-barely stare at the door. "Mhm?" He simply mumbled, a slur of consonants gliding off his tongue. Picking up the sound of the handcrafted door handle squeaking, the door opened. "Rise and shine, Thomas." The confident, yet feminine voice of Brenda awoke him fully, and settled every nerve. Her voice was strong, with words as clear as footsteps in sand, but just the same, they faded away with the gentle touch of your own. The pitch was still youthful and just by the sound, you could tell Brenda was beautiful. To Thomas, she really, truly was. He wondered if he looked bizarre because when she talked, Thomas quickly smiled with eyes still closed, obviously tired. It looked as if he were a child, trapped in a dream full of. . .chocolate, perhaps. When noticing his jaw bones getting tired, as fast as he could, he wiped the grin off, returning to a much more normal position. Embarassment seemed to dissolve in the air when Brenda let out an exagerrated giggle. "So, are you getting up or what?"

Lifting his feet up and hopping off the bed, he jogged over to her- the beautiful and brave girl he admired. Without any response nor any words at all, he hugged Brenda, lifting her up as if he hadn't seen her for years. "Let's go eat." was simply what Thomas said, leading the way to the kitchen.

Surprise-not- Minho was in the kitchen, flipping the pan; scrambled and sunny-side-up eggs flying everywhere. "Hey, the beast has awoken," Minho joked with a smirk on his face, "and lookie here, there's his beauty." At Thomas's eye roll, his friend snickered and continued at his terrible breakfast job. "What are you. . .making?" Brenda inquired, confusion apparent on her face. "I think I'm slopping up some eggs. Don't judge, just 'cause I'm not Frypan, shuck-face." Thomas clasped a hand to his mouth, trying not to laugh. Though, bringing Frypan over didn't seem like such a bad idea. Realizing his hunger, he walked over to the center of the dining area, where a small cafe-like table rest. Out of the three simple chairs, he chose the closest.

The kitchen was probably the biggest room in the whole tiny home. Across the usually clean hardwood floors, nestled on the farthest side, was the counter, makeshift stove, and the "slop pot" they called it. Also, there was fridge, lacking the freezer, so it stayed nearly half the size. In the center, where Thomas sat was a simple cafe table accompanied by three painted and carved wooden chairs. Weighed down to the floor, when you slid out the chair, it clonked against the surface. It made Thomas cringe. But, to make up for it, all the tropic, and bright plants of the Paradise lay in the corner of the room, enlightening the aroma.

As far as he could see, Brenda had fully taken over cooking duty, which seemed to soften his hysteria. Minho, who was gladly faking a grumpy look, sat down with Thomas. A curious look illuminated his face, clearly expecting conversation. Eyes searched side to side, and repeat. The confused Thomas searched his mind for something to talk about, aside from Brenda.

From proposing.

From girls, basically.

"What-chu thinking? Remember, we ain't supposed to be thinking til' forever." Minho broke his friend's hesitant pause, a smirk on his face. He was obviously wondering what was on Thomas's mind.

"I kind of am thinking, Minho." And with that, the big and strong boy gathered his fists under his chin, the pursuit of interest in his face.

"Oh, really? About what?"

Thomas sighed. He didn't want to bring up the subject, much less, have Minho screaming it. That was the _last_ thing he wanted. It was that type of situation where he felt back in grade school, with all the gossip and rumors. Trying to pocrastinate, he counted his toes, then fingers, then looked at his friend. With all his heart, he wanted to trust him with his plan. But, what if Brenda found out? What if she had no desire of being with him? Thomas could see his now perfect world falling apart around him.

The silence was broken. "Are you gonna tell me, or what?"

Propping his elbow and hand on the table, he stuck out his pinkie. "You gotta promise not to tell. Shank." The Glader words were becoming foreign so quickly. . .

The laughing Minho latched on to his pinkie, nearly ripping it off. "Fine, fine. This must be big."

He took a big breath and admitted. "It's about Brenda."

As foresaw, his friend chuckled, almost falling out of his chair. However, just as he leaned over the table to hear more, Brenda casually walked over to them. The plate plopped as she dropped it in front of them, and the chair as usual, clonked when she sat down. The eggs looked delicious to the boys, for it was already around ten o'clock. Proud of her work, the cook smacked her hands and took a healthy spoonful of scrambled eggs. Minho snickered when she sat, and Thomas could tell something good was _not_ going to come out of his mouth. In his head, he counted the seconds until his secret was blown. But, when he heard it, the joke was worse than expected. Minho spat when he said it, laughing like a crazed man, throwing snorts in with the mix. Brenda couldn't help but look confused, but her admirer shook his head in his hands.

Pitch-forking an egg on his knive and holding it in the air as a salute, Minho happily announced, "Kiss the chef."

The day was going to be long.

On his eighteenth birthday, Thomas was announced head of the Paradise, and in charge of all reconstruction. Building the human race was not in God's hands this time, but each night he prayed one would appear. He was not fit for the job, or so _he_ insisted.

It had been a bit over half a year and the reconstruction crew was almost done housing the approximate two hundred survivors. Of course, many had to share rooms, like Minho, Brenda, and himself had been. It was not an objected idea, though, as many had arrived to Paradise in their family. The first project was building Frypan's place. They built a large diner, for the whole community, with housing in the back for the cook himself. Now, the focus was finishing the large neighborhood and creating a new lifestyle. Everyone knew the way of the walk in past, near present, and this right here was the root of the future. Thomas was overwhelmed by what was being thrown onto his shoulders. He was no architect. . .or was he?

The whole population met under what was going to be a meeting spot. In between two large pine trees, the base of the future building, stood Thomas and his crew. "Alright guys," He announced, and clapped for their attention. "Lot's to do today. What do we start with?" Hands shot up in the air, but he waved them away, just looking for response. In the crowd, it was a scattered mix of children, adults, and babies. He shuddered at the thought that no elderly actually lived to be sane.

Someone suggested the garden, or the mall, or maybe even the school. But his mind was made up when Brenda recommended the church. Thomas had never considered a church. With all the chaos and Cranks, he wondered if there was even one in Denver. "I know it's an odd idea to you. But when I was little, there was still a church. It would be a nice tradition to start up again." Thomas considered it, but when he searched his lost memory for church, the only thing that came to mind was weddings. And God. He shook his head at the irony, but liked the idea. He called over his sketch crew and requested blueprints for this church. Again searching his mind, Thomas had no idea where to begin with this project. The crew ran over to a small working station, yanked out their pencils, and began sketching the best of best churches. Expecting to see a satisfied grin on Brenda's face, he turned over. To his surprise, she almost looked offended. "Thomas," She began explaining, "You didn't have to do this just for me."

"Of course not. I thought it would become a nice tradition." And he smiled.

Just as suspected, the day was long and winding. He had disapproved over one hundred not-good-enough blueprints and only one stood out. It came to him from a young lady named Hickory, who had grown up in a church. Gladly, he accepted the beautiful model and began planning the accompanied variables.

Not only was the day long, though, Thomas felt like a _Scrooge. _The whole time, he sat, drawing after drawing, asking for more, while he did nothing. He bet you could tell by the look on his face he felt bit winded. Brenda and Minho left after their duties were completed. Therefore, leaving him feeling quite alone.

About to leave, he gently placed the architectural plan in the folder and continued home.

It wasn't far, maybe a good five minutes, that home await him. Maybe he was imagining, but it smelled like Brenda was cooking dinner- soup he guessed? He begged for anything to take the mixed emotions off his mind.

Stopping in his footsteps, he inhaled. _This is Paradise, _he reassured himself, _No matter to worry about._ But it seemed like the universe heard him. His feet felt frozen in the one position as a black shadow raced by him. It looked neither human nor familiar, and Thomas didn't mind. He was ready to fight, feet stuck or not. However, he won the war easier than expected, when a stray dog stopped in front of him. Instinctly, he waved it away and continued home, thinking WICKED had planned this better than he thought. Hopefully, these pests would stay out his way.

It wasn't that he was really concerened about, though, deep down it was something else.

WICKED. The organization seemed so. . . gone to him. But just then it occured to him once more, even worse than when it actually happened. _Teresa_. He didn't feel the same with her missing.

He walked through the doors of sweet home, welcomed by the essence of friendly faces and good food. It wasn't unusual, but after the depressing walk home it seemed better than most nights.

First, he hugged the at-work cooking Brenda, feeling like her long time husband coming back from work. It sure felt realisitic too. She giggled at his sudden embrace and shoved a spoonful of the slop pot's soup in his mouth. He nodded back at her, giving a thumbs up at the stew's approval.

Minho motioned for him to come over to the dining table, a serious look on his face. "Did you see the shadows?"

"What shadows?"

"You know, the one's when you came home. I don't know what they are, but they aren't lookin' friendly."

Thomas hesitated.

"We should have a plan, shuck-face. Just in case."

At realizing what Minho meant, he spoke up. It felt good to make Minho feel stupid every one in a while; he always seemed to get a big head. "They're called dogs, dummie."

"What were you going to tell me earlier?" At the sudden change of topic, Thomas could see the embarassment in his friend's eyes.

But it was obviously Thomas's turn to be embarassed. "I need your help, Minho. This is. . for real. I want. . " The words drifted away from him. He wanted to know his friend would help him first.

"Yeah, I'll help ya. With what?" The last word was exaggerated, like he was getting irritated at not knowing yet.

"I want. . .I want to marry Brenda."

It took Minho forever to suddenly drag Thomas into his bedroom, lecture him on how he's too young, and how he should really wait for him to get a girlfriend. Thomas simply shrugged, disappointed that his friend wouldn't help. But he kept waiting. . .for the sarcastic jokes.

"Nah, I'm joking ya, man. But wait til the real jokes come."

"Oh, great."

Minho grabbed Thomas by the head, shaking it back and forth in a head lock singing, "Aww, my little baby's in love. With a girl. Who woulda thought!"

For once, he grinned at the sarcasm and went with the flow. Minho always had his back.

Dinner was, as expected, mess. Aside from food, Thomas recieved awkward glances from Minho, the oddest conversation starters, and even the old elbow punch. Grimace after grimace, fake confusion finally seeping into his pores, hoping that Minho would stop, it never did. With the last spoonful of soup, the chair squeaked- covering up any bizarre comment his friend had made. _Maybe_, Thomas had thought, _If I try really hard, he can hear me._

_SHUT UP, SLINTHEAD._

And with that final telepathic remark- which, frankly, was not heard- he thanked the pretty girl for dinner, forced a smile at Minho and continued to night preparations.

Sleep was expected to come easy to Thomas tonight, but it was just as hard. His eyes wouldn't shut no matter how much he tried, and Brenda never said goodnight. He felt like a real dramatic; so involved in his love ife, it wasn't natural. He frowned upon himself.

Relief flooded through him, when the two tiny knocks came, similar to this morning. "Are you asleep?" Brenda whispered. Alert, he sat straight up and responded, "Not even close."

"Good. I just wanted to thank you for today."

"About what?" Thomas had such a hard time holding conversation.

"The church. That was really. . touching."

"This Paradise needs traditions." He took her hand. "You're the first."

She smiled and laced her fingers through his. "There's a story, ya know."

"About you?"

She nodded and laid her head on his shoulder. Her gentle breathing nearly put Thomas to sleep. "Yeah, and about churches. When I was little, my parents were both healthy. And they depended on church and gods, God, what not. They prayed and prayed that they could protect me." Thomas noticed her breathing pick up at the thought. He squeezed her hand. "Like a month or so later. . they both got the Flare. The last place I saw them was at the church, withdrawling to turn themselves over to the Palace. They only wanted to protect me. And others. All I remember was sitting at the church day after day. . not knowing why they wouldn't return. . ." Her voice drifted off and breathing slowed. He wondered if she was asleep.

As if she were a fragile vase, Thomas carried her to her bedroom and tucked her in. "Goodnight," he spoke, wondering if she truly was awake or not. For a while, he stood watching her, sort of waiting to see if she'd wake up. He knew he would give anything to speak once more to her, just to comfort himself. Make sure that he'd see her tomorrow.

Guilt washed over him, and Thomas suddenly felt drenched in regret. He _didn't w_ant to think like that. He _didn't_ want to love Brenda so bad, with so much lust. Shaking his head, he walked as quickly as he could while still acting decent, down the corridor. The situation in which he stood disgusted him.

He returned to his bed, her past presence giving him the sudden ability to rest. Yet, he still regretted directing so much emotion towards her. _Maybe, _Thomas thought, _I should forget about her._ And with the power of his mind, Thomas simply let himself roam his relaxed thoughts. Waiting, just waiting, for the instinctive affection of Brenda to intrude his concentration. His eyes closed with forced ease, and he entered the realms of sleep, only WICKED on his mind. . .

He was scared to wake up, yet scared to sleep. In front of him, was an angel like teenage girl. She looked familiar, but with more defined and beautiful features. Her hair longer and darker, eyes brighter and enough to take a breath away, and her smile. . so wide and proportinate. She looked perfect. He just knew that this girl was important to him, yet he cringed at the thought of even liking her. Mixed emotions confused him, even in slumber, but he could tell waking up was not an option.

Thomas, oddly, wasn't surprised when she waved to him, and in his dream, he waved back.

"Tom," She spoke, "We need to talk."

At every word, he felt more disgrace than already for leaving her. Not trusting her.

How was he supposed to talk to Teresa?

"Tom, Tom?" She kept repeating, like a broken record. Thomas seemed to be on pause too, not responding to a word she said to him. The shock of seeing her, the shock of not knowing what to see; it felt unnatural to speak to her. Finally, her angel-like figure walked over and shook him, as if trying to arise his frozen body. Her fingernails dug into him, grasping him hard, and twitching with the fear that, possibly, he wouldn't get up. Back and forth, he moved, Teresa's elbows snapping with the abrupt push-pull against him. Though it was only in his dream, Teresa's frightened face seemed to be right in front of his.

_TOM! _

There it was. Just like he used to be able to be telepathically enabled. But. . . he remembered, Hans had disabled that ability. With the unforeseen speech, a loud thump sounded and he knew that he had just fallen on the floor. The dream absorbed his body like a trance and he couldn't control himself.

_Ow._ Thomas didn't mean to say it telepathically, or even at all, but he did.

_I'm sorry. I scared you, didn't I?_

He paused. Not knowing what to say, he searched for the Thomas he was. The real one, the one that could be himself around Teresa. He wasn't there nor found.

_I'm sorry. _He finally said.

_Excuse me?_

_I left you. Teresa, I didn't even trust you. I should have. I'm sorry._

_Tom, that was me. That was my fault._

_And I know you know about Brenda. . . Teresa. . _His thoughts faded away, hoping she understood. It didn't even seem like he listened to what Teresa said.

_I'm not mad. _

_I'm not mad._

_I'm not mad._

It took a minute for him to realize that he wouldn't respond.

"Can we talk like this, please?"

"Of course. Now-"

"How did that even work? I thought we couldn't do that anymore. Moreover, while you're. ." _Dead._ Thomas hoped with a strong passion that she couldn't hear his thoughts. At least, the ones not meant for her.

"I just tried it. Maybe we're special."

Thomas tried not to tear up at the memories between him and her, the theatrical moments in the Glade. "_Maybe we're lovers."_ He recalled her saying that. And he believed it, at the time.

Shaking his head at even the thought, he continued. "Why did you kill yourself?"

"It isn't like that. You were the one meant to finish the cure. You are the one meant for Brenda. You are the _hero. _I wasn't going to let anything ruin that for you, Tom."

"Teresa." In the dream, he reached for her hand. One last moment they could share, even if it was an illusion.

Her ghostly image took his hand and her goregous, bright eyes hooked onto his.

"Please tell me this is real. This is you."

A tear. Two. However, they rolled down Teresa's face, not his. "It is me. Please believe me."

"I. . "_ do. I would give anything to go back and trust you._

It seemed like years past by when he reached out and grabbed Teresa by the torso, pulling her into a hug. Gently, her skinny arms wrapped around his neck and they stood there.

For what seemed like forever.

Even if it was a dream, he believed her. This was the real Teresa, before any Trials, any disease. Just simply Teresa, when the world was them two.

When she stretched away, her words were bold and full of importance.

"You need to be careful. Secure the Paradise. Just because this world is rid of the Flare, not everything is over." The tears flooded down her face, but stopped quickly, as if her strong words punched them away.

Thomas wasn't far, but she moved closed to him, farther than needed to kiss his cheek. It wasn't meant to be so romantic to him, but he felt so close to her.

She truly was his best friend. They w_ere _lovers, but it was different to Thomas. Almost like there was love, and then there was _love._

When the words reached him, he didn't bother to question them. He had been through enough to know that no response would be provided. Teresa was already cheating out the future for him, and he could only thank her.

She waved goodbye, her figure melting to sand into the abyss.

_I love you. And I'm sorry. _He continued.

_Teresa. You're my best friend._

It took a minute or two, but in the depths of his thoughts, he made out a feminine voice:

_I love you, too. . .goodbye._

With the abrupt end, his body charged up from the ground, leaving his head to itself- the whiplash agonized his neck. His watch read five a.m., and he groaned at the thought of sleeping again.

_Teresa?_

He presumed it full of hope; hoping that she would respond.

Nothing. Climbing onto the bedsheets and yanking himself atop the bed, he slumped into a crumpled ball, full of despair. Why would she leave him? It never occured to him that maybe there were things to do when you were dead. But he had wanted with all his heart for her to stay, so he could say _everything _he wanted to tell her.


	2. Chapter Two

The door opened, with a soft jingle of bells.

Thomas was greeted with a friendly slap on his back. He jumped forward, still not completely gathered since his confrontation the night before. Recovered from shock, he took three steps onto the shiny diner floor. "How goes it, fella'?" Fyrpan's voice rang through Thomas' ear and out the other. He truly was disoriented from his dream. Or was it a dream? Was it all an illusion? Was it simply his mind playing tricks on him, haunting him? That wasn't what he wanted. Thomas wanted the dream- no, not the dream, Teresa- to be real. Her image was burned onto his brain, sending flames into his thoughts.

"Not bad. Yourself, Frypan?" Minho answered the question for his friend, stepping forward to give him a little shove.

"Fine, fine. 'Scuse me, though. Might as well serve up some grub, huh?" With light footsteps, Frypan and his now shaved beard wandered off behind the kitchen's two doors.

Thomas still felt dizzy and immediately slid into the booth, massaging his hands through his hair. An exasperated sigh escaped his lips.

It was all too much. The real aroma the dream brought, Teresa, whom he thought he'd never see again; and the message she brought with her. Slowly, he could feel the cells in his brain popping, driving him crazy. Or was it another dream? Thomas had _no idea _what to think, no idea of what was real."Oh, Teresa," was all he muttered to himself, not directing the words towards anybody.

Nobody- not Minho, not Brenda, not Frypan- came to sit by him. And he thanked his lucky stars for that, too; he definitely needed some time to himself. To understand what was going on. To uncode what Teresa said, and understand was going to go on.

It took half an hour, but Frypan came out with a heaping stack of steaming hot pancakes, drowned in butter and syrup. Half of the pile was gone in seconds, devoured by Minho, and the other was a team effort of the chef himself accompanied by Brenda. Although tempted by the unresistable, warm smell of buttermilk, Thomas ate one. One small, oval pancake that was at the bottom of the stack, tinted brown from being burnt. It nearly fell apart, the crusty shell cracking in his hold, but Thomas quickly downed it in one swallow. Without much thought, he returned to his hands on his head, and started vigourously thinking.

_You need to be careful. Secure the Paradise. Just because this world is rid of the Flare, not everything is over._

Teresa's colloquy rang in his head. Secure the Paradise? But, how? More importantly, _why?_

He didn't need to ponder it much longer in order to logically know that when a dead friend tells you to do something, you do it. So, a new construction project seemed like an amazing idea.

_Brenda, _The words were a snarl, not aggressive, but disappointed when his mind read them.

Listening to a dead girl is one thing, but doing what your girlfriend wants is another. A new construction project would mean _not _building a church. He was sure that once he explained it, Brenda would surely let him protect their families. That was, if Teresa hadn't been the one delivering the message.

There had always been a repellence between the girls. A disagreement, almost a fight after Thomas's heart. Or maybe it was protecting him, intuition of helping those you love. Especially when Teresa lost it. . .

It was never phsyical and barely audible, it was merely a war between two minds. It was in their eyes, though, the misunderstandings they shared was represented in their irises. However, now that his first love was gone, it was easy to find out who Brenda would be mad at.

The boy himself.

His watch read nine-forty when he next looked at it. Obviously, he had been sitting in the booth for an hour. Just then, he noticed the laughter and varied mumbles from a couple booths down. On two hazy feet, he stumbled to reach the red leather seats. He clung to the booth table for support. It was assumed that he didn't need to, when Brenda took his hand, snapping him awake and steadying his trembling body.

"Ah, there he is! Everybody, lookie here, Sleepy has awoken."

Thomas grimaced at Minho's smirking face and scooted into the booth-chair next to Brenda. Her hand was still clinging onto his.

Frypan offered over a few leftover pancakes, a burnt brown, like the previous one. He accepted, and gulped down about five with an excessive butter amount.

"How do you like your place, Frypan?" Thomas asked, wondering how his handiwork had been holding up.

"She's like my own child. Love 'er to death." Frypan looked at the greasy table and pretended to kiss it. "Isn't that right? Doesn't Daddy love you?"

Using his best fake emotion, Thomas laughed and quickly glanced at Brenda. Surely she had enough of the energetic man, too? Her face was blank, barely a smile plastered on her face.

Silence. That's all that went on for the next minute or so. Oh, geez, there was so much less to do ever since everything was. . . well, perfect.

Thomas didn't think it would stay that way for long. The urge he felt to tell Brenda why, it was so strong; it was almost unbearable to keep it from her. Creases became noticeable in his forehead as he conflicted with himself.

Minho glanced arounda awkwardly, confused as to where the conversation went to. As quick as he blinked his eye, Frypan was darting into the kitchen muttering, "You know, I think there's cake in here somewhere."

The doors creaked as they slid close against the diner tile.  
>"Glad that's over." Minho released an exasperated sigh.<p>

"He's just giddy from the island. Like _you,"_ Thomas pointed out, blinking his eyes to wake himself up.

"Boys." Brenda smiled.

And a conversation started about the recent construction project. Of the course, the coordinator felt sick to his stomach, realizing the awful facts. He could not possibly put this meaningful project on pause.

"What color do you think it should be?" Brenda fantasized, her fists supporting her chin as her eyes fell on the ceiling.

"Whi-" He never finished.

The bells that hung on the entrance door fell to the ground, breaking into dented balls. A sweaty, crying middle-aged man bursted through the door, so hard that the glass flew from the frame and smothered against the ground.

The three faces stared awestruck, and Frypan skidded through the kitchen doors giving a tiny shriek.

No one moved.

"Syd, oh, Syd. She's all gone!" The man screamed, stomping in the glass, shaking his head. He locked his eyes on Thomas'. "Help me, please."

They sat the man down at a table until he calmed down. Thankfully, Frypan found the cake and forced it down his throat. Everydone did, the stress posing as a threat.

Thomas, Minho, and Brenda squeezed in one lounge chair, Frypan and the man staring across the table. Brenda looked worried, almost shocked.

It felt odd to Thomas, that he expected this. It felt sick too, considering no one else did.

The girl took his hands. "Sir, what is your name?"

"Harper." He sobbed, his words drifting into space.

"May I. . . ask what happened?"

"She. . just. . . left. Like that. Shoulda never left her."

"Harper, who are we talking about?" Brenda let go of Harper's grip, sternly looking him in the eyes.

"Sydney. My daughter." His sobs increased, tears falling down his face by the gallon.

Thomas stood up, and demanded, "Show us where she is," Frypan stood up, too, eager to follow. "You, stay here."

Harper and Sydney had a home, one of the older ones; it was a small hut, surrounded by a pretty, tropical garden. On the inside, upon the couch was a motionless teenage girl. Maybe fourteen. Her face was drenched in drops of sweat, bright red like a tomato. She was _not _gone, however; but her breathing slowed a considerably large amount. Her tongue came a little loose from her mouth, and her eyes opened slightly to stick their bloodshot selves onto Harper's face.

"Dad?" She whispered.

Harper rushed over, bent to the floor and rested his head on Sydney's blanketed torso. "Shh. I got help, hun."

"Here we are again." Thomas whispered to his friends and squeezed Brenda's hand. They remained at the doorway, contemplating the situation.

"This is awful. . . she's so young." Brenda mumbled to herself, only loud enough for them to hear.

Minho was speechless. There were no jokes appropriate for the situation. His eyes locked on the door, ready to leave at any moment.

Harper's crying turned into awful, heavy breaths and tears that choked him. Between chokes, he muttered nonsensical statements to his daughter. Her eyes were closed again, and despite the slow rise of her chest, she looked lifeless.

"Minho, I'm gonna need you to get the hospital staff."

Brenda buried her face in Thomas's neck. "I don't know what to do about this." She whispered.

"It's not that bad." But he knew he was lying. He was lying all too much lately. Or at least, not telling the truth.

Minho returned with the most educated of the staff, and even the newbies. However, nobody came to the Paradise prepared, after all, why would they? Why would they even be prepared in Denver? Marco, the eldest of the hospital crew, skimmed his eyes over Syd's covered body. Worry was obvious in his expression. "I. . . I've never seen anything like this. I can try, but. . ." His raspy voice caught when Harper's wails grew louder. The sound was _awful._ Brenda screeched a little and turned to the door, but resumed her position immediately. She got hold of Thomas's hand, and although no one else noticed, Thomas saw the tears trickle down her rosy cheeks.

How awful it was to Brenda, Thomas could tell. He hated himself for it. How could he not see it coming? He really, really hated himself. The anger inside of him built up, letting fire loose in his body. The impact was strong and the wall shook; everyone turned to look only to see his fist hitting the wall. They all turned around almost instantly, directing their attention to Sydney. But he didn't want their attention. All Thomas wanted was to change this situation. He wanted to tell them what was going on, or at least, half of it.

Marco and the crew were huddled over the damaged body, sticking syringes in her skin, forcing pills down her throat, listening to the mere _thump-thump _of her weak heart. A light shone in her eye, looking at the bloodshot mess, and she tried to scream. It came out as a squeak.

That was _it._ Forcefully, Thomas grabbed Minho and Brenda by the arms, yanking them from their shocked huddle. When they reached the bush outside of the cottage, Brenda cried more, and Minho remained emotionless. Confused. Maybe even a little frightened. "I have something important to say, so listen up." No one moved.

"Can I just say that I'm really glad you got me out of there?" Minho smiled, but not much, just the corner of his mouth raising a bit.

"Yeah, okay. It's just, I think I know what's going on." The words sounded foreign, and much like describing the Changing. Just as painful, too.

"Well, hell, then, explain it!"

Brenda watched them carefully, interest in her face. She wanted just as much as everyone else to heal Sydney. Too many people had already died.

"It was a dream. Like the Changing, almost," Thomas pointed at Minho, knowing he remembered, "But not that. Teresa," He inhaled deep. "Was there. It was her, I can't describe it, it was just really her. There. In front of me."

"Thomas," Brenda touched his shoulder gently, "I'm sorry, but, she's. . ." Her face averted to the ground, recalling the event. No matter what conflict was between them, Teresa saved them, and that was that.

He shook his head and picked her blank face back up to face his. "It doesn't matter. She talked to me. In _my head."_

Brenda backed away, bumping into Minho's chest. "WICKED turned that off," They both said at once.

"I said to_ listen_! I don't know how, but she did! And you wanna know what she said?" Neither of them responded. They simply looked curiously back at Thomas.

"She said that not everything is over. She said that we need to protect our home. She's saving us, again."

"Of course she did," Brenda almost screamed it, confronting Thomas. He knew it was a bad idea to confess, but there weren't any good options either. "You sound crazy." Her face was twisted in a snarl, a terrifying mixture of anger and fear.

"Guys!" Minho yelled, pushing the two out of the doorway. He didn't want to stop their argument, though. Marco walked through the pathway.

Behind him, Harper was rolling on the floor hysterically, sobbing and fussing. He muttered nonsense to himself, cradling his head in worn hands. His ripped hair lie on the floor.

"I don't know exactly what that was, or how it happened," Marco pulled down his plastic, blue mask, "But she stopped breathing."

Brenda kicked over a potted plant, sending the brown clay flying. "Way to go!" Her sarcasm was cruel. However, it wasn't directed towards Marco. It was to Thomas.

Brenda stayed the whole night next to Sydney's grave. They decided to make a graveyard instead of the church and it seemed appropriate for the situation. Multiple times, Thomas tried to go apologize but her crying grew louder and he couldn't stand it. It wasn't the right time. The hospital took away Harper and made sure he recieved special care. By the time he got there, half of his hair was ripped out and he was hyperventilating severely. Marco gave his apologies as his regards, immediately leaving with the crazed Harper.

Everyone was gone; only the bright, full moon remained. And of course, the heros, although, Thomas rejected the label. The whole night, he sat on the boulder on the oceanfront. From sundown to moonrise, his eyes followed the night like a wolf. Contemplating what was done, he concluded he was hopeless. Utterly, desperately, completely hopeless. There was no way to fix such a misunderstood mistake. What a fool he was, to think that everything would be alright when he said: "Oh yeah, by the way, I saw my ex-girlfriend, who's dead, in my dreams. She wanted me to tell you this." And Brenda was right, he _was_ crazy. Too crazy to trust his own self.

When all the clouds cleared out of the sky with only stars remaining, Thomas felt a tap on the shoulder. _Brenda!_ His thoughts screamed excitedly. He looked behind him- where the graveyard was- and Brenda wasn't there.

"I got her in the house," Minho's now weak voice mumbled.

He nodded, and got up, jogging on tired feet to get home.

Even if home would never be the same.


End file.
